


like a camellia soaked in rain

by eclipsed (lucitae)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Time Skip, a lot of 387 references, and crying over 399, kazuyo-san heavy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24907609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitae/pseuds/eclipsed
Summary: The implication is heavier than an exchange of paired alloy rings.Normally, Akira would suffocate under the weight of it.His first instinct would be to run.But under the clarity of Tobio’s eyes that reflects the endless blue of the skies above, Akira hesitates.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Kunimi Akira
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	like a camellia soaked in rain

**Author's Note:**

> all i can say is: siken, kazuyo-san, and the returned package in the final episode of hospital playlist refused to leave my mind.
> 
> nsfw mentions in part v and ix ; explicit in vii
> 
> as always, heavily inspired by [this cultural reset](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705384).

> Actually, you said _Love, for you,_
> 
> _is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s  
> _
> 
> _terrifying. No one  
> _
> 
> _will ever want to sleep with you._

Richard Siken. [Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48158/litany-in-which-certain-things-are-crossed-out)

* * *

The rain is relentless. Kicking up dust, filling cracks in cement, running down window panes like liquid silver, regurgitating from gutters, drowning the earth, and drenching the cuffs of Akira’s jeans. The gray clouds overhead show no signs of improvement. The crop of Lycoris marking the boundary between the living and the dead trembles under the weight of the heavens, its crimson bleeding color into this landscape.

Akira stands to one side, under autumn foliage and the cover of an umbrella big enough for two. He watches over a pair of siblings two rows of tombstones in front of him, undeterred by the onslaught of rain.

Kageyama Miwa stands tall as she shields her brother and the stick of incense from the downpour. The embers flicker. The ash never travels past the rim of the pot, glued to granite surfaces by the rain. Both heads are bowed in prayer.

Akira’s fingers itch for something to hold. A cigarette maybe. So that all this tension he bears in his shoulders can be exhaled in smoke, watch it spiral towards the heavens like the stick of incense Tobio wants to offer him but doesn’t. Because he knows Akira’s answer will be the same as last time and the time before that.

Akira’s fingers curl around the handle of the umbrella tighter.

It’s been two years since Kageyama Tobio first brought him here. 

* * *

This isn’t the sort of place inconsequential people get invited to.

The implication is heavier than an exchange of paired alloy rings. Normally, Akira would suffocate under the weight of it. His first instinct would be to run. But under the clarity of Tobio’s eyes that reflects the endless blue of the skies above, Akira hesitates.

“I’ll try to fly back,” Tobio says after placing the incense in the center of the bed of ash, “but...”

It’s unlikely he’ll be able to. Just because he has a pro salary doesn’t mean he can take trips at will when he plays abroad.

“Miwa has never come alone.”

From Akira’s understanding of Kageyama Miwa, he doubts she’ll mind either way.

They are long past the point where Akira can ask _why me?_ And not close enough for Akira to read in between the lines of Tobio’s words and draw out inferences.

“Please.”

This time his hands are empty. No incense stick in hopes that Akira would allow himself to be introduced to Kazuyo-san, that the vagueness of whatever they are can be cemented into words. There is nothing there but a plea to connect.

In the final game of his middle school career, a ball is deliberately set to fall. In the middle of his third decade of life, Akira faces the same decision again. Except this time there will be no semblance of forgiveness. This time his answer will draw the curtains shut on Kageyama Tobio _and_ Kunimi Akira.

The hand he places in the heart of Tobio’s isn’t out of fear.

* * *

Kageyama Miwa holds the same blunt and ruthless edge that Tobio sometimes displays. It makes Akira wonder if it runs in the family. Or if they are all the same breed tired — beating around the bush gets you nowhere. Small talk is reserved for people who give a damn about impressions.

Miwa retracts the lit incense and places it in the bed of ash next to hers.

“You’re close enough to Tobio for him to bring you here. What are you afraid of?”

Akira deflects it with a half smile, parroting his words from a year ago: “It’s not proper.”

Miwa shrugs and says “suit yourself.”

And then: “I bet he wouldn’t mind.”

“But then again he’d probably say something along the lines of: no one understands what is and is not important to you better than you do.”

The curl of her lips is that of a smile. Expression reminiscent.

It is only then that Akira understands that she is no longer speaking of Tobio but rather of Kazuyo-san.  
It is then that Akira finally has a better grasp of how vast the caldera Kazuyo-san left behind in Tobio was.

* * *

A crater is typically formed from an external force, whether that be a volcanic explosion or an impact of a meteorite. Calderas, on the other hand, are only ever associated with the inward collapse of a volcano caused by the emptying of its magma chamber.

In Akira’s opinion: a caldera forms from the temporary disruption of magma, an involution from the loss of support, a lowering of its surface to meet its core once more.

Between the first and second year of middle school, Tobio’s intensity heightened. No one wanted to understand the desperation. What seemed to others like an eruption of passion marked the beginning of a tyrannical rule, where fun was squashed by ten fingers supporting the ball. 

The rejuvenation of joy didn’t return until they were doused with orange and black, turquoise and white, on opposite ends of where a net cut clean through the middle as a clear distinction.

Through time, just like how calderas may get filled with water, Kageyama Tobio’s basin gets saturated with encounters. It isn’t a replacement. It isn’t meant to be. The same passion churns beneath its diminished surface, enriched over the years.

But a caldera will never revert to what it once was. Tobio carries the immense core of molten rock within him and with the lessons Kazuyo-san imparts on him, he matures. 

* * *

The first time Akira learns of Kazuyo-san is in the back corner of some izakaya thirty-five steps below Shibuya City Hotel.

Tobio looks as out of place as he probably feels. Akira’s lips curl in amusement, chin resting lightly on the back of his hand. Delight washing through him as he observes Tobio.

Again, another one of Tobio’s _firsts_. Yet another place where, when things eventually end, Tobio will, for however brief a moment, be reminded of Akira. Akira savors the house sake on his tongue.

“Relax,” he coaxes, dangling a piece of cheese tofu spread on slice of baguette in front of Tobio, “I’m not going to eat you.”

( It’s a lie of course.

He’ll do so a little while later, crammed into one of the only two stalls this izakaya houses. Tobio’s face a pretty shade of pink as he tries to muffle his sounds with the back of his hand. The other hand braced against the wall as Akira kisses the crown of his cock after swallowing.

He paints another four walls with memories. )

Tobio’s fingers curl around Akira’s wrist, holding him steady as he leans forward to take a bite out of the bread. If he pressed any deeper, he could assess character and rate Akira’s pulse. So Akira retaliates by licking his fingers clean of the stains of cheese.

And the night unwinds like so: under the glare of yellow light and next to the concrete wall is a dialogue exchanged not from words but the lack thereof. Of over indulgence, of re-calibration, of shared food entering temples. Of things you only allow to be heard when it is guaranteed to be drowned out.

Tobio heavy with six shots of shochu, a variety of dishes featuring mackerel and daikon, and Akira simply mentions _I wonder if Kazuyo-san would be proud of me_.

That night Akira learns of Kazuyo-san’s importance to Tobio and tries to take the sadness out of him the only way Akira knows how.

* * *

Akira can’t help but wonder what impression Tobio has of him. Despite his looks, he has no idea about _hanakotoba_ ’s associations. He just opened up a browser and asked the florist, with the sinking suspicion that this is Tobio’s way of inviting him, much like the first time. As if he has yet to realize that if he just asked directly, Akira wouldn’t be able to say no.

( Not that he ever intended to. There’s a privilege to this sort of thing. And maybe this time his fingers will curl around a stick of incense after scrubbing down the slab of stone, and put to words his relation to Tobio. )

Chrysanthemums are the go to flower and what they represent has no bearing to the deceased. White lilies make a little more sense — purity and chastity — and are the annual adornments of the Kageyama ancestral site. Others bring along favorite flowers. There’s no hard and fast rule.

Akira learns anyway.

The _higabana_ is considered protective, planted around graves to ward off evil and prevent animals from disrupting eternal rest. But precisely because it became associated with death, it bears the meaning of: _never to meet again_ ; depending on intent: _lost memory_ or _abandonment_. _Tsubakis_ blossom in the midst of winter, where their fall is blanketed by snow ; _in love, perishing with grace_. _Sagiso_ reminds people of the egret ; _my thoughts will follow you into your dreams_.

He thinks about the portrait of Tobio’s grandfather smiling brightly as he holds a volleyball between his hands. The one that was tucked carefully into bubblewrap before making its trip abroad.

So Akira purchases _shion_ along with the usual bouquet of white lilies. Tells Tobio it means _remembrance_. And watches as his expression turns a little wistful as he brushes his finger against the petals of purple aster.

* * *

_Self maintenance_ , Tobio explains the third time Akira catches him in the middle of it, was something taught to him by Kazuyo-san. It always includes old newspapers to catch the clippings, a file kept to the side for later, and nails that never waver by even 0.1mm. Consisting of mundane little things Akira never thought he would find attractive in a person. And yet here he is.

He doesn’t offer to take over. Tobio wouldn’t like that.

Instead, he says: “let me do your toes.”

There’s a reason to it.

Akira soaks Tobio’s feet in warm water and wipes them dry with a clean towel before he pulls out a bottle of polish. He’s tired of the marks that fade after a few days. The desire to leave a trace despite the oceans that will soon separate them extends its roots deep into Akira. Not that anyone will see what is hidden underneath shoes, but the knowledge in of itself is enough.

He meets Tobio’s eyes.

Tobio looks between the bottle, his toes, and the color the nails on Akira’s feet sport and nods.

“This is also a maintenance of sorts,” Akira says lightly as he places the center of Tobio’s foot against his knee. An echo of what Tobio has done with his fingers: a trim and a file. Followed by something new: cotton wedged between toes. A thin layer of base coat. A lacquering of color brush by brush. 

If he notices how the color of varnish matches his irises, Tobio doesn’t mention it.

“And now what?” Tobio asks with a wiggle of his toes, after Akira releases them both.

“We wait for it to dry,” Akira replies as he stands, brushing his jeans.

Tobio reaches out and tugs, pulling Akira off his center of gravity. Akira topples forward, hands braced against the back of the couch, on both sides of Tobio’s head. So, he wasn’t wrong when he felt a heavy gaze.

The pads of Tobio’s fingertips are pliant against Akira’s jaw. “You look good when you’re serious” as a way of explanation. He leans forward and Akira meets him half way. Lips graze against his, almost chaste, before parting. Giving Akira permission to stir him into a frenzy.

Akira pulls back, purposeful. Grinning at the noises of frustration that fall from Tobio’s lips.

“They’ll be ruined if they don’t dry properly,” he says mere millimeters from Tobio’s lips.

“I don’t care,” Tobio growls.

Akira drags a finger down Tobio’s chest, using the edge of his cuticle for a faint white line, starting at the head of his sternum. He leans forward, lips against the shell of Tobio’s ear, as he whispers: “but I do.”

“What a pity,” Akira drawls sarcastically as he seats himself squarely in Tobio’s lap. He can feel the stiffening of Tobio’s cock through all the layers between them. Hand slipping underneath his shirt, sliding against the outline of abdominal muscles muscles, moving upward as the shirt bunches under his motion. Tobio shrugs it off and casts it aside. “And here I was thinking of how to reward you today,” Akira continues. “Maybe press you against the sheets,” Tobio shivers, “watch you leak with your hands behind your back, and maybe when you beg for release...”

Akira leans back, mouth falling open, tongue slipping out, hand curled a centimeter away in a suggestive manner.

He watches the way Tobio’s eyes darken. The shift of the coloration in his ears turn a bright red.

“Alas,” Akira rests the center of his forearm on top of Tobio’s shoulders, “impatience limits options.”

“I’ll ride you today.”

Tobio’s hand clamors for the bottle of lube and condoms in the drawer. Akira’s lips twist in glee.

But the hand that returns is reverent almost. Careful as he unzips the front of Akira’s pants, freeing Akira’s half hard cock with both hands.

Akira hisses. There is nothing holy about this. Akira scrapes his fingers against Tobio’s scalp, threads his fingers through Tobio’s hair, and yanks back. Exposing Tobio’s neck to the afternoon sun spilling in through the windows. He leans forward and presses his lips against Tobio’s carotid pulse almost fervently, barely held back by the reminder of a sold out stadium Tobio is meant to play in next week. Japan’s enthusiasm in sending their national setter off unparalleled. He can’t leave a mark here. Doesn’t mean he can’t leave one elsewhere.

Akira looks up through his side swept hair and finds Tobio with lips curled into a grin. The half raised brows and the gleam in his eyes — a tip — Akira has fallen for his ploy.

“Kiss me,” Tobio demands.

Akira complies. Prying Tobio’s mouth open for the hundredth time, yet it still feels like the very first.

Tobio’s hands wander: against the curve of Akira’s hips, cupping the shape of his ass, hooking into the edge of both the band of his briefs and his jeans to pull them down. Akira growls into the heat of Tobio’s mouth and is met with a widening grin.

Fine. If this is how he’ll play.

Akira picks up the bottle of lube and condom, rises and places his weight on both knees. The bottle opens with a soft pop. He pours a generous amount into his hand before he reaches behind him.

Tobio’s eyes trail after Akira’s hand. Pink tongue slipping out and wetting lips.

Akira pushes a finger in, feeling the way the lube slides out of him, down his thighs, and makes a mess of Tobio’s shorts. The clear liquid evident against the black. The small telltale shiver when some of it splatters past the edge of cloth and against bare thighs. Akira adds another.

“Don’t you dare,” he warns. Tobio’s hands don’t move from where they support Akira. Ten fingers spread across skin. Palm warm against flesh.

Akira has just added a third, when Tobio caves with a “please.”

He wipes his hand on the outside of Tobio’s shorts, purposefully assessing the state of Tobio’s cock. With a grin, he pulls it down. Watches Tobio writhe and the pants that fall and pool around his ankles. There’s a wet stain to his briefs underneath, outlining the desperation Akira has subjected him to.

His blood sings in delight.

Tobio may be a king on court, but here, he is a subject to Akira’s rule.

Akira watches the roll of hips as the last remaining garment on Tobio is peeled off. And with hands still slick with the mess he made, attempts to roll the rubber onto Tobio, and watches in amusement the way Tobio’s brows scrunch in frustration as Akira fails again and again. Hands slipping and falling, brushing against the shaft, caressing the crown, leaving a mess of lube intermingled with pre-cum.

“Akira...”

It’s low. On edge. Kin to the one time Akira pushed Tobio to the point where Tobio bit hard enough to draw blood. ( It was just a busted lip. No big deal. But Tobio turned docile for two weeks following it until Akira fucked him out of it. ) His pupils are blown, eclipsing the blue until only a rim of it remains.

Akira swallows his name on Tobio’s lips and lets Tobio roll the condom onto himself. He parts with Tobio’s name on his tongue, but buries it. Not yet. Too soon. It needs to be pulled out of him. Resemble an accident after veins are dowsed in liquid courage. Uttered with the desperation of a drunken man when the whole world falls away and nothing matters except for the two of them.

Yes, he asks for a lot. The heart that flutters in his ribcage can be interpreted in many ways. Akira chooses fear.

He grabs the base of Tobio’s cock and slowly lowers himself, bit by filthy bit, until he bottoms out. He doesn’t need to see to know the way Tobio’s toes curl. Watches the way Tobio gasps, raspy, lips around his name again. Rolls his hips to drag another one out of him.

Akira has seen too many people ruin themselves under the guise of “love.” The first time he takes Tobio into his mouth, he vows to never do the same.

Don’t assume. Don’t anticipate. Don’t expect.

The lips against your temples, the words whispered between your shoulder blades, the body curled around yours is just an act of loneliness. A byproduct of delusion presenting itself as that vague notion of romance.

Akira is better than that.

To Kageyama Tobio, love probably comes in the form of a ball, a net, white lines, and a team on either side. It’s in the rush of a long rally, when lungs and brains are deprived of oxygen, clinging to the sole hope of watching the ball drop on the other side of the court. A hustle to keep it up and in the air. A connection for the next. A game that never ends.

But in the years of waking up in his arms, of seeing the pattern of love marks left behind in the throes of passion, of a clean towel and a change of clothes already placed in the bathroom for when he wakes, of a simple breakfast with eggs and rice prepared to greet him — perhaps Tobio’s love doesn’t only belong on court.

After all, in this moment, there is no ball, no net, no court. Only Kunimi Akira reflected in those eyes.

“Tobio... please...” is all Akira needs to utter for Tobio needs to meet him half way.

The couch shudders. Akira’s knees grow weak. Tobio’s lips trail against Akira’s collarbone, sounds that spill from his throat become muffled between skin. Akira lets it out as he rocks back to meet Tobio again and again. His slow, even pace becoming disjointed. Hurried for release. Tobio is the same: a starved man.

Akira has faith that this time around, if he falls, Tobio will be there to catch him. So he comes in the embrace of that thing named love and Tobio follows.

* * *

In the third year of middle school, Tobio walks in on a bunch of first and second years discussing ditching practice to queue for the release of a new game. He meets them with a glare so cold they shrink into themselves. Akira watches the exchange while pretending to be preoccupied with his phone.

He sides with them. After all, what’s the harm in skipping a single practice as a benchwarmer? And quietly brushes Tobio off as unyielding.

Even now, Akira’s impression hasn’t changed. Tobio still reminds him of a meteor — single-mindedly driven towards the Earth’s core. He spent three years worth of afternoons watching Tobio pull ahead, leaving everyone in the dust even without a competitor in their warm up jogs. Knows that a boy who started this sport as early as second grade never stopped. That they have a gymnasium littered with balls long after the sun has set and the stars have become visible. That a lone figure stays behind, cleans up after himself, and arrives earlier than anyone else.

A vibrant streak across the sky with the sort of concentration and determination mortals can only look up in awe of. And rather than putting effort into betterment, they choose to bow their heads and wish for a miracle.

In his third decade of life — no, far earlier than that. Perhaps as early as the second official match against Karasuno, Akira finally understands. Reminded yet again while watching Tobio grin in the fifth set against MSBY Black Jackals.

There are no miracles to be had. Tobio leaves it up to no one but himself.

* * *

The last traces of smoke dissipate. The rain still falls hard enough for Akira to feel the vibrations of stretched nylon struggling under the weight of water.

He holds it steady, holds it firm, waiting for that short sprint between Miwa’s umbrella and his. For Kageyama Tobio to spill into his arms. For Miwa to exchange a knowing glance, a half smile, and a cool wave that Akira returns with a nod of acknowledgement.

Even if tears are long dried there is always a twinge of a shower deep within one’s heart.

Akira brushes the spray of droplets on Tobio’s hair away with one hand. Eyes falling onto the shadow of dampness on shoulders that neither Miwa nor Akira could shield. 

Tobio’s arms wrap around Akira’s waist, pulling him close as he rests his head against Akira’s shoulder.

Akira’s gaze drifts back to the now tidy site where they once stood.

> _What are you afraid of ?_

A lot of things really. Akira doesn't have something like volleyball to fill the crater Tobio leaves behind.

The day Akira finally sends his regards to Kazuyo-san is the day he knows that he can no longer run. It means he’ll be tethered to all that is Kageyama Tobio.

But if you asked a different question, changed it up a little...

> _No one understands what is and is not important to you better than you do_.
> 
> ( _So, what is important to you ?_ )

Akira once asked this oceans away from Japan, tucked underneath unfamiliar sheets that smell nothing like Tobio’s detergent back home. A languid curl of satisfaction settling in the pit of his abdomen after Tobio complained of how sore he will be tomorrow. Fingers drawing circles into skin, a plea for forgiveness because he can no longer chalk up his appearance to _just happened to be in the neighborhood_.

It’s deliberate this time around.

“Volleyball,” Tobio answers.

“Obviously,” Akira snorts.

Tobio turns around to face Akira, giving him enough time to think. “Playing as long as I want against really good people.”

“And?” Akira presses only for the sake of it. He wouldn’t be surprised if Tobio stopped there.

“And this.”

Fingers lace with his, drawing them out from under the covers, into the open air.

Akira stares into the dark of Tobio’s eyes and that sliver of moonlight reflected in them, and wonders why he no longer finds it terrifying.

He undoes their intertwined hands. And before Tobio can mistake this for a repeat of their last moments as teammates, Akira kisses the palm of Tobio’s hand.

This is a long overdue reply from a hitter to his setter.

* * *

In the last set of the first match against Tobio’s fated rival, Akira posed a question:

> _What counts as being serious to you[?](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EblNHivU0AA1JfT?format=jpg&name=large)_

For Tobio it meant run like you mean it. Give it all you got. It means an attitude that goes toe to toe with his when it comes to volleyball.

To Akira, then, there was no point in reaching an understanding if Tobio didn’t get it in the three years they sported the same uniform.

But the Tobio now is both the same and different from the boy who demanded such things of Akira.

To Akira it means...

Akira reaches behind him to unhook the embrace around his waist. He folds his hand around Tobio’s and draws it to the front. Tobio lifts his head.

Tobio’s fingers still smell faintly of a mix of agarwood and sandalwood, so Akira wraps his fingers around it and offers a quiet prayer.

There is no curl of smoke, no small spark of fire, no ash falling away from its tip. But the smile that graces Tobio’s lips indicates otherwise.

Akira meets his gaze, allowing his fingers to slip in between Tobio’s, and says: “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was born from reading siken poetry and thinking about how kageyama's love/passion for volleyball was all consuming & no one in kitagawa daiichi could match it. and subsequently, what would he be like in love?  
> contrasted with kunimi's fear of loving someone that deeply ( and being betrayed ).
> 
> also introducing someone to your family is something. but taking them to an ancestral burial site is more than just something.
> 
> if u can't tell i love [red spider lilies](https://kaxtukei.com/en/red-spider-lily-image). and rain. could've chosen hydrangea season instead but red flowers provide more potent imagery and death associations. ( think: poppies & hypnos ; pomegranate & hades )
> 
> side note: shion's ( 紫苑 ) meaning can also be written as _i won't forget you_.
> 
> 35 steps is a real izakaya ( given that you can find it ).
> 
> thank you for reaching the end of this incoherent fic.


End file.
